


(Don't You Try To Fight It) An Idea Whose Time Has Come

by prolixdreams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10 Years in Fandom, 10 Years of Castiel, 10 Years of Destiel, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anniversary, Canon Universe, Castiel/Dean Winchester Anniversary, DeanCasVersary, Destiel Day, Destiel Day 2018, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, Fluff, Fun, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Castiel, Silly, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prolixdreams/pseuds/prolixdreams
Summary: The faerie thinks she's being helpful when she casts a curse on Dean that is cured by true love's kiss.She doesn't realize just how stubborn Dean Winchester can be.[Written for the 10 Year Anniversary]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had planned for this to be a quick ficlet in honor of 10 years of Destiel. What I ended up with was 10,000 words - a thousand words for each year this love has been in all our lives. 
> 
> Destiny, really. 
> 
> As I wrote on the Profound Bond Discord (where you're welcome to join us anytime): 
> 
> I'd like to propose a toast. 
> 
> To the love that launched a thousand fics.
> 
> To the boys that find each other, whether they be hunter, angel, baker, barista, soldier, merfolk, android, biker, professor, or a thousand other ways and worlds... they always find one another. In every corner of the globe, we know they're meant to be, and we keep telling their stories through video, art, fic, and any other medium we can come up with.
> 
> For ten years so far, and hopefully plenty to come.
> 
> The intention of this is for it to be an affectionate letter to the fandom that brought me back from the brink when I didn't think I could write anymore. It might be a bit rough around the edges (and came in just under the wire) but it's made with love, I promise. I hope that counts for something.
> 
> (Anyone wondering about the title: It's from Hip to be Square, by Huey Lewis and the News)

THEN

* * *

 

 

_The faerie’s feet stretched to touch the ground, like gravity had forgotten her and she was straining not to float away._

_Her hands were in the air like a shot, not even Cas had time to react. There was a flash of rose-gold light that lit up the abandoned cul-de-sac, and a gray-black cloud appeared in its wake. The mass stretched like taffy into a thin, floating line no thicker than the mark of a pen, which dove directly into Dean's chest and disappeared._

_At least, that’s how human eyes would have seen it. Cas saw it still, coiled within Dean’s chest._

_"My queen hunts you." The faerie said. “She bears no human weapons, but rather uses what she finds in you. If you hope to even survive, let alone to defeat her, you must carry no secrets, no illusions about yourselves and one another.”_

_“What did you do to him?” Sam demanded._

_“I’m trying to help. To… disarm her.” She said, eyes appraising. She gestured to Cas. “Ask him.”_

_Damned faeries_

_Cas looked to Dean, whose hand was reflexively resting over his own chest where he’d been pierced, but who didn’t seem to be in pain._

_What could he do? Try to kill her? It'd probably fail, faerie magic being what it is, and even if he succeeded he’d be right back where he started anyway._

_Besides which, the truth was that he knew the answer, and more than that: He’d seen immediately what she was doing and why she was doing it – she’d made sure of that. The knowledge seemed a physical thing, pieces scattered around him at the moment of the spell’s casting. All he had to do was pick them up and slot them together._

_“How long?” Cas asked._

_“Three days.” She answered._

_Cas drew in a long breath and let it out in an impatient sigh. Her initial assessment may have been accurate, but she was underestimating Dean Winchester’s stubbornness by orders of magnitude. Three days might not be enough._

_"I won't tell them." The faerie folded her arms, a posture more suited to a petulant toddler than to the tall, broad-shouldered woman in front of them. "You want him to live? You explain it.”_

_She regarded Cas with a long, knowing look, and vanished._

_Again: damned faeries. Nuisances, the lot of them._

_“Cas? Was she telling the truth?” Sam focused in on Cas, searching warily. “If you know, you’ve gotta—”_

_"Yes. Fine." Cas agreed._

_He explained everything._


	2. Day One

 

NOW

* * *

 DAY ONE

 

* * *

6:25 PM

* * *

 

The drive back is, to say the least, tense. The veins in Dean’s hand stand out when he shifts gears, and Cas can see his jaw working intermittently. He’s already turned the radio on and off again three or four times, and where he normally doesn’t have much respect for keeping his eyes on the road, his gaze now is nailed to the gray horizon.

The sun is on the way down, but the evening is dark with clouds that threaten rain.

From the back seat, Cas watches Sam watching Dean – not daring to study him properly, but taking intermittent breaks from looking out his own window to glance over, as if monitoring Dean for signs of the curse taking hold. Between trying to wrap up the hunt and then the trouble with the faerie, neither of them had slept in almost a day and a half.

It was the faerie who’d cast the spell, Cas reasons, so there’s no reason for him to feel guilty – _she’s_ the one who created the uncomfortable atmosphere they’re all marinating in now, right?

Or had he said something wrong? Had there been a way to explain it that would have gone over better, and he’d missed it?

There’s a moment where Sam starts talking, very obviously to Cas, but… strangely, without turning around or moving at all. Cas has his mouth half open to say something before he realizes the odd behavior is because Sam’s not _speaking_ , he’s _praying._

_Dear Castiel: … Hard to do this without moving my mouth. I hope it’s coming through, or whatever. I… … If it’s working, cough or something? I don’t really know how this works exactly. Amen?_

It’s a bit ridiculous, but Cas clears his throat as inconspicuously as he can.

_OK, Sam to Castiel…_

“Cas?” Dean unknowingly interrupts, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror, and Cas catches a glimpse of his furrowed, suspicious eyebrows.

He’s not sure how to respond, so he simply meets the mirrored glance.

“Since when do you cough?” Dean asks. “I thought you were basically full-strength now? Did she do something to you too?”

“I uh…” Cas knows the lie is going to be clumsy, but hopes Dean won’t press him anyway. “Must be a habit I picked up, from when I was human. People cough during… awkward silences. I’m fine.”

Dean’s expression does not settle, in fact he shows no signs of believing a word of it. Regardless, he goes back to looking steadily at the quiet road and doesn’t say anything further.

 _Let’s try this again._ Sam begins to pray after a few minutes of silence, face turned to the window, presumably to hide any outward signs of subvocalizing. _Castiel. Praying to Castiel. Um. Worried about Dean, basically. I think we both know that—_

“Guys, let’s lighten up.” Dean chooses that moment to start talking, because of course he does. “It’s gonna be fine. We’re making great time back, I’m sure the bunker’ll have something on faerie spells. I mean, true love’s kiss? Oldest cure in the book. Gotta be tons of lore on this sort of thing.”

“That’s… part of what I’m afraid of, Dean.” Sam’s forehead creases. “Too _much_ lore. You know how that can be. I mean…”

“We’ll find something.” Dean’s voice has that resolute, _don’t argue with me_ tone he gets when he’s being stubborn. “Cas? Buddy? You sure that’s the only cure? There’s gotta be a counter-spell or something right?”

“The faerie, she…” Cas sighs. Dean’s making this difficult, as Cas had known he would. He doesn’t make eye contact, but rather focuses out the front window as he speaks. “With most faerie magic, obviously the caster doesn’t want their spells broken, so they obscure the details as much as they can, make it difficult to read. She didn’t. It was all right there on the surface, like… an instruction manual.”

“What, like open source magic?” Sam asks.

“She _wanted_ me to see it.” Cas adds, unsure what Sam means, but certain of this. “She wants the spell broken.”

“Well, did you pick up any other details?” Sam probes like a lawyer in search of a loophole. “Maybe we can use this to our advantage here.”

There’s no way to know what will be helpful, so Cas starts with the most obvious piece of information. “From what I could tell, the spellcaster _chooses_ the trigger for the eternal slumber, it could be anything – a food, an object, a spoken phrase, a time period…”

“The needle on a spinning wheel.” Sam suggests, which earns him a sharply unamused glance from Dean.

“Exactly. And she chose three days.” Cas reminds. “Specifically, midnight of the third day. Local midnight to Dean, I imagine. Of course, it’s closer to two days now, since it counts from the previous solar midnight to the third solar midnight, not by the clock, so we’ll need to—”

“Alright,” Dean cuts in. “So, what, she wanted me to have a shitty long weekend worrying about it before I die? How am I supposed to… find true love, or whatever, in less than three days? What about the eternal slumber thing? How literal are we thinking that is?”

“Very.” Cas says. Something between a sigh and a dark huff of laughter escapes him as he considers the ridiculousness of what he’s about to say. “If the spell was merely going to kill you, this would be much simpler.”

A pained expression crosses Sam’s face, and he takes a breath as if to speak, but ultimately seems to think better of it.

Instead, silence descends on the Impala once more.

 

 

* * *

10:55 PM

* * *

 

Dean makes himself scarce almost immediately upon arrival.

Sam takes a long look at Cas, then back to where Dean went. He frowns briefly like a man with a serious decision to make, and then disappears as well, though not to his room. He locks himself away in one of the lower level’s magical item archival rooms, making a point to mention that he’ll be in there for _no less than three or four hours_ and that _even if you shout, I might not hear you down there_.

Cas assumes that he’s searching for something that might be of help to Dean. He offers to help, but Sam politely-but-forcefully rebuffs him. (“Dean is probably pretty stressed about this, maybe you should keep an eye on him.”)

Dean is less than receptive, however. When Cas knocks on his door, he opens it only a crack, insists that he’s fine and that _he’s tired from driving and no he doesn’t need Cas’ help to get to sleep he’ll be asleep before his head hits the pillow, goodnight Cas._

Castiel finds himself standing in the quiet hall on his own.

A memory rattles against the walls of his mind.

_(I’ll just wait here, then.)_

He returns to the library and waits.


	3. Day Two

DAY TWO

* * *

1:30 PM

* * *

 

“We don’t have to do this right now.” Dean complains. “Shouldn’t I be out at a bar, or speed dating or something, trying to find true love?”

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he looks up at Cas from the book he’s scanning. “Are there any other details about the cure? I mean, the wording there is pretty vague.”

“The shape and color of the spell seems to insinuate a romantic attachment.” Cas details, “And it is very clear that the kiss should be, and I quote, ‘willingly given and gratefully received.’ It does not stipulate a bodily location, though traditionally—”

“Yeah. According to the Men of Letters…” Sam reads aloud: “This type of spell is typically performed by a caster who either does not believe in true love, or who believes that their victim is unable or unwilling to give or receive it.”

Sam stops there, and the moment hangs.

Dean huffs. He scrapes his chair as loudly as he possibly can in the process of standing up, and storms out of the library.

The moment the bunker door closes again, and Dean is definitely completely out of earshot, Sam shuts his book with a heavy _thup._

“So.” Sam looks Cas dead in the face. “How are we going to get him to kiss you?”

“Sam…”

“Nope. Gonna stop you there.”

“Sam—” Cas’ face falls sympathetically.

“Literally everyone knows.” Sam jabs, impatience plain both from his expression and his knife-handed gestures. “That faerie who _just_ met you? Not only did she _know_ , she thought it was a source of _ammunition against us_. She thought it was dire enough that this… this spell… made some kind of warped _sense_ to her. That’s literally the only logical explanation for what just happened. You know it. I know it. Dean probably knows it. So: whatever you’re gonna say, about _you thought Dean was straight_ or _angels don’t-can’t-shouldn’t blah blah blah_ , stow it.”

Cas examines the wood grain on the table. Softly, he says, “For what it’s worth, I did believe that.”

“Yeah.” Sam settles, and matches the gentle tone. “Well, he thought so too, maybe… He worked so hard to convince Dad, I think he just about convinced himself. It was like that for a lot of stuff, you know? I mean, music, food, everything. Not that he doesn’t like cheeseburgers and Bon Jovi, but there’s other things, too – stuff he’ll deny he likes ‘til he’s blue in the face, and then I turn around, and there he is, drinking cucumber water or whatever he just spent so much time making fun of.”

Sam goes on, telling bits and pieces of stories by way of example (some partially familiar and some entirely new to Cas) and for a little while, Cas simply listens. He watches Sam get a bit lost in it, his expression shifting from bitter frustration to crinkle-eyed affection for his brother.

This has always been what he’s liked best: just listening to the creatures of the Earth, humans included, and hearing what they have to say. If he’s honest, that’s one thing he and Dean have in common: he’s never been able to admit to many of the things he truly loves. Not smiting and meting out punishment and forcing the world into the tidy boxes that Heaven wanted, but just _listening._

Other angels seem to forever underestimate the wisdom of Earth.

“Cas… I’m sorry, I’m talking your ear off. It’s just…” Sam laughs. “It’s actually kind of nice to get this off my chest, after all this time.”

“I’m sorry to have complicated things so much.” Cas says.

“No, no! To be honest, I’ve wanted to say thank you, for _years,_ for being there for him, but I couldn’t, because of Dean’s… being Dean. But now?” Sam leans forward over the table. “Cas, I don’t know what we’d have done without you – what Dean would have done – and not because of any _power_ you have, you understand?”

“I appreciate that.” Cas feels his own face quirk into a brief smile. “What is it you suggest we do?”

 

 

* * *

4:45 PM

* * *

 

On the table, Sam’s phone rumbles, moving itself slightly to one side, and the display lights up. Cas reads Dean’s name upside-down.

Sam scoops up the phone.

“Dean? …Are you… _drunk?_ Dude, it’s not even fiv— _”_ Sam’s brows knit together. “What? I mean, I’d like to forget, but no, yeah, I remember Becky. Why?”

As the conversation progresses, Sam becomes increasingly argumentative, rising from his chair and pacing the library and the war room like a caged animal. Cas catches bits and pieces. The gist is that Dean has a plan, Sam really doesn’t like it.

Eventually, his shoulders fall, and he lowers his phone. Dean’s hung up on him.

Cas holds his breath when Sam tries to call back, but doesn’t get an answer.

"On the bright side," Sam says to his darkened, disconnected phone, "There's no way he'll find anyone to agree to that."

 

 

* * *

8:30 PM

* * *

 

“This place. Is. AWESOME!” A low, feminine voice, almost certainly a smoker, shouts from the top of the stairs. Cas sniffs the air – he's probably the only one that can detect the tobacco and eugenol notes that have swept in with her, but they're present nevertheless. She adds: “…but… also kind of murdery? Oh shit, you’re not gonna murder me, are you?”

Dean’s voice comes through the door before he does. “No, no one’s gonna murder—”

“HI!” She interrupts Dean to greet Sam and Cas, leaning so far over the railing that they both jump out of their seats at the map table and startle toward the stairs, sure for a second that she’s going to fall.

“For the record, I think this is a terrible idea.” Cas warns quietly, exchanging a wary glance with Sam.

“You and me both.” Sam mutters back through his teeth. “But I think we’re just going to have to roll with the punches for a minute.”

The woman coming down the stairs on Dean’s unsteady arm is tall, nearly as tall as Dean himself. She has a shock of short, jet-black hair sticking up all over the place, and a long, badly-tangled blonde wig clutched in one manicured hand.

“Iss cool.” She slurs, gesturing dismissively with her wig-hand. “He told me everything. I mean, _everything._ Monsters and stuff. I’m cool with it.”

“Dean!” Sam scolds.

“Don’t worry, she's traveling, like we do! Well, not like we do, but... point is, she's not from…” Dean pauses, belches, and continues. “…around here. Think of her as our... magical assistant for the night.”

“I won’t tell anybody anything. I'm very discreet." She winks clumsily. "Just… you know, don’t murder m—whoa, you’re _tall_.”

“Dean, take her home?” Sam switches to pleading.

“I _said_ it’s cool!” She protests. “It can’t be any weirder than any of the other drugs I’ve tried, even if it is…” she wiggles her fingers, “spooky magic stuff.”

“What’s your name?” Cas narrows his eyes.

“Tilly.” She switches the wig to her left hand, and extends the right one toward Cas. She fixes him with an unfocused blueberry-blue gaze and smiles. “Nice to meetcha. You've gotta be Cas, right? Dean told me _all_ about you. He said his brother was the tall one, and Cas is the one with the nice-"

"Coat!" Dean interrupts. "Nice coat. Good coat. Much better than the last one."  

Cas doesn’t shake her hand. Instead, he touches two fingers to her forehead, cleansing her blood of alcohol.

She stumbles, but, now sober, catches herself. Her face is less amiable now – even fearful. Entirely human, though, as far as Cas can tell, and he’s pleased to note as much.

“Oh shit.” She turns back to Dean, who is giving her a nod and a thumbs up. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

“Toldja he was an angel.” Dean walks straight past her and circles around the map table to stand next to Cas, clapping him roughly on the shoulder twice. The second time, his hand stays there. “Pretty cool, huh? Actually I was hoping you wouldn’t believe me, I kind of wanted Cas to do the… the wing thing…”

“He has wings. Because, of course he does, wait, should I be, I don’t know, bowing or saying something, or…?” Tilly asks, picking at the very short hem of the black dress she’s wearing. She smiles in self-defense. “Uh, sorry about being a stripper… and maybe doing the occasional escort gig… You all, angels I mean, probably don’t like that, right?”

Cas considers this for a moment. “Would it be correct to say that you’ve chosen your work of your own free will?”

“I probably shouldn’t lie to an angel, right? Uh… yeah.” Her gaze falls.

“Tilly.” Cas steps forward, out from under Dean’s hand, and grasps one of Tilly’s in his both of his own. He looks at her, really looks at her, and her eyes lock effortlessly onto his as if they’re the only two people in the room. “I was merely concerned about whether you’d been coerced. Sex work is just as valid as any other—”

Dean’s got one finger in the air. “Hang on, I didn’t know—”

“Wait, what?!” Tilly pulls away, moment broken, and walks around Cas like he’s a pillar in her way. She regards Dean incredulously. “ _You_ offered me money to go like an hour away to your house and do drugs and kiss you, what did you _think_ was happening there?”

 At that, all eyes in the room turn to look at Dean.

“Wh… OK, look…” Dean’s hands are in the air like a man surrendering. “I was _–am–_  drunk, and come on, I wasn’t exactly gonna ask someone to get into this mess for free."

"Shouldn't be doing it at all." Sam mutters.

In one smooth motion, Castiel spins on his heels and taps Dean on the forehead. If he just so happens to use a little more force than he did with Tilly, well...

“Hey, now, that’s just a waste of good booze.” Dean grumbles, without a hint of a slur.

“Dean?” Sam calls, jaw jutting forward, brows up, all patience gone. “How about joining me in the library. Cas, get the girl a glass of water or something, would you?”

When Dean doesn’t move, Sam crosses the room in one long step, grabs his hand, and pulls him into the library. Dean protests all the way there, but cooperates.

“I’m sorry for all this. Please, sit.” Cas says to Tilly as the commotion dies down. He gestures to one of the black vinyl chairs on wheels. "I may not be well-versed in every modern Western social protocol, but hospitality has been a pillar of human society since before you all started writing things down. Do you like coffee? Tea?"

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing." Tilly quotes softly.  "Hebrews, 13:2. My grandma taught Sunday school."

A single violent huff of laughter escapes Cas, and his reaction surprises both of them. "You don't have to do that." He says.

“Tea would be nice.” She changes the subject.

He looks at her for a moment, deciding whether he thinks she’s harmless enough to leave alone for the length of time it takes to make tea. Bitterly, he thinks that if she isn’t, it’s hardly his fault she’s here, and Dean created this issue to begin with and _he_ can be responsible if anything comes of it. 

Then, he thinks about how he’ll feel if he walks away from her and she does something decidedly non-harmless.

 _Then_ , he thinks about how he’ll feel if he walks away from her and she somehow winds up unintentionally touching one of the many, many things that should not be touched and winds up injured. 

He indicates for her to follow him into the kitchen and sit at that table instead. This winds up having the benefit of allowing her to choose among a number of varieties of tea, some in dustier boxes than others. Despite having no particular need of it, he makes himself a cup as well and sits across the kitchen table with the theory that it might put her at ease. 

When he takes an immediate sip from his mug, Tilly’s mouth tightens into a smirk. “Now I know for sure you’re an angel. Or… not human, anyway."

He tilts his head a little. He does it without thinking, actually, but when he realizes he's doing it, he doesn't do anything to put a stop to it. Over time, he has noticed that the gesture generally gets him explanations, and it seems to endear him to people. 

"That water's still almost boiling." She says. "And besides, the tea's not ready."

"It doesn't taste like much to me either way." Cas confesses. "You're handling this fairly well. I can take you home, if you want. Dean won't stop me -- or you."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get paid." She answers, "Unless there's something you're not telling me. I mean, the way he described things, it sounded like the second or third easiest five hundred dollars I've ever made."

Cas draws his eyebrows together in thought. "What, exactly, did he ask you to do?"

"So, he seemed nice enough. My kind of work, you get good at judging people. He reminded me of like... Aladdin, or something. Kind of a diamond in the rough, right?"

"Dean is a good man." Cas agrees, pleased both that Tilly seems to think so, and that Dean comported himself well enough for her to come to that conclusion.

He hangs on every word of her explanation. It seems that Dean's been unusually forthright with her, and she'd had a little brush with the strange in the past -- not enough to believe the whole story unreservedly, but enough for her to not dismiss him as insane outright. In the end, he'd asked a very specific set of tasks: if she was willing, she would return to the bunker with him, they would both drink the same love potion that had afflicted Sam, their kiss would break the curse, and then she'd sleep it off in the guest room and they'd go back and pick up their cars. 

To Dean's great credit, it seems that he explained in detail what the expected effect would be, how long it was projected to last, and who would be sober nearby (Sam and Cas) in case anything went unexpectedly. She is about as informed as Cas can possibly imagine she could be. 

"I'm a bit of a psychonaut, okay?" She justifies, taking an experimental tiny sip of the tea, checking the temperature. "And I like weird stuff. The way he talked about it? Maybe it's stupid, but I knew that if I said no? I'd never stop wondering. Plus, I'm on vacation, so..."

Cas nods - he can understand that. When he was human, he'd done a little exploration himself. Some substances had been a lot more pleasant than others, but the good ones? It had startled him how quickly he'd taken to them, to the point that he had cut himself off for fear of growing dependent. With his grace back, he'd actually gone back in a quiet moment to see what effect, if any, it would still have.

It had been disappointing. 

"I know what you're doing." She says. "And it's really sweet. I can see why he--"

"Yep." Dean announces his presence in the doorway. "Angels are pretty OCD about consent, as it turns out. But they're not all as good as this one though. Just... fair warning, in case you ever meet another. Most of them are dicks. We're lucky."

He looks at Cas, but the second Cas tries to meet his eyes, they dart away. 

"Well that's a bummer." Tilly rescues Dean with a toothy smile. "I like this one, anyway."

No one else in the room can see it, much to Cas' relief, but his feathers are decidedly ruffled. 

 

  
* * *

10:00 PM

* * *

  
It takes a little finagling to find the instructions, pull the ingredients together, and be sure everything correct. Sam's particularly cautious -- Dean calls it nitpicky, but Cas appreciates the attention to detail. If something happened to either Dean or Tilly, he'd feel awful for allowing this attempt at all. 

It's a creative solution, to be fair, very much in the usual Winchester style. It's also wholly unnecessary, but Sam hasn't called Dean out on that yet. Cas suspects he may be put off by the _willingly given and gratefully received_ caveat, and is waiting for the situation to get a bit more desperate before he presses the matter. 

Of course, if this works, Dean will be saved, and all will return to normal.

Cas isn't sure how he feels about that, but he knows how he feels about not knowing how he feels about that, which is guilty.

With a little more examination, he thinks he could probably put a lot more words to it, which is why he instead focuses on assisting Sam. 

Dean and Tilly, having had their informed consent properly secured, have been allowed back into the booze. They keep up a running commentary that Cas doesn't have much trouble tuning out, but that seems to get on Sam's nerves to the point that he starts do that tight-mouthed face Dean always points out.

"Do we really need the peanut gallery?" Sam snipes, sweeping hair away from his face. "It's not like this is my idea."

They're just nervous, of course, but Cas doesn't open his mouth to rise to their defense. 

He needs something from both of them – a hair is fine, he says, and each of them pluck a few. Tilly draws from her part, and her close-cropped black strands go into Dean’s cup. Dean picks a few tawny hairs from his temple, and they go into Tilly’s.

When the hairs hit the liquid, they sort of sizzle, and a small puff of smoke wafts from each. Tilly and Dean share a slightly anxious look, and Sam’s eyebrows go up curiously.

Tilly sits up a little straighter, jocularity slipping away, when Sam starts the chant. Dean keeps his own expression carefully neutral. They can all tell it's right by the rich undertone that slips into Sam's voice as he speaks. The energy is working through him and it echoes in his words. Cas watches it move, the only one among them who can see it rather than only hear its presence, to be sure that there's nothing amiss with the spell. 

He lets out a held breath when the two pewter chalices flash and the scant, rusty liquid inside turns a rich, translucent purple. 

"Alright." Sam huffs. "Drink up. Becky added it to champagne, so I can’t tell you how it tastes. You might want a chaser or something.”

Dean looks at Tilly, who shrugs back, and they both pour the remainder of their respective beers into the cups. The purple color vanishes entirely.

“Cheers.” Tilly says.

They clink (gently) and drink.

Cas’ wings stretch and flutter like they’re trying of their own volition to flap and take flight and pull him away from whatever is going to happen next. He stills them deliberately, like does his feet. There is no humanlike shifting of weight, he is rooted to the floor like a statue.

The moment of drinking seems to stretch, and inside of it, while they’re both preoccupied with swallowing, Sam glances at Cas, but he has a hard time interpreting the expression and he wishes Sam would just say something, or even pray, like he had in the car.

If it all works, Cas thinks, and it all goes back to normal, maybe then – when Tilly goes home, when the potion’s worn off, before things inevitably go sideways again, before the Queen of the Fae finds them, before the next save-the-world situation comes up... Maybe then, without pressure, maybe that would be a better time to address things. 

Perhaps it would be better if this _is_ successful. He uses this to brace himself.

"I win!" Tilly jokes, having downed her beer first. 

"Doesn't count." Dean points at her chalice. "You had less beer le-- left. Um. You--" 

He blinks a few times as his words grind to an uncertain halt and a loose smile takes over his face. Tilly answers him with a giggle -- she's blushing. The fact that they're across the library table from one another is very obviously the only thing holding them apart. 

Sam gathers the spell materials and carts them off to the kitchen. 

"C'mon, Cas." he grumbles. "Help me wash this stuff... maybe burn the recipe page while we're at it."

But Castiel doesn't follow him. He remains frozen as Dean darts around the corners of the table, and not that it especially matters, but Castiel doesn't even breathe when he gathers Tilly into his arms and kisses her like he's just come home from a war. 

It's like a thousand kisses that Metatron's story-dump had deposited in to Castiel's mind. He rifles through context-less images like files in a cabinet, with labels like Alicia-and-Devlin, Buttercup-and-Westley, Joel-and-Maggie, Noah-and-Allie.

Love potion or no love potion, it’s hard to ignore: Dean-and-Tilly match the pattern perfectly. 

Cas remembers suddenly that looking at them like this is considered creepy, that  _he's_ creepy -- Dean has said so himself.

No one notices him leave the room.


	4. Day Three

DAY THREE

 

* * *

12:45 AM

* * *

 

It’s a bit of a mess trying to pry them apart. Tilly is the more determined of the two, most likely due to feeling absolutely no obligation to anyone else in the room.

Sam angles for Dean instead, persuading him that Tilly’s had a long, tiring day: she drove all day, Sam explains, then went drinking, then came to the bunker (which, Sam points out, can be a bit overwhelming the first time) and now it’s almost one in the morning, and doesn’t Dean want her to be healthy and well-rested?

For once, something goes precisely as planned, and Tilly follows his lead.

Beforehand, it was agreed upon that kissing was as far as things would go, since even being on board with the love potion made other forms of consent a tad dubious. As a result, they’d decided that Sam or Cas would stay within earshot and conveniently step in from time to time with snacks or glasses of water like chaperones at a teenager’s co-ed sleepover.

As it turns out, however, this is largely unnecessary.

The love induced by the potion seems almost comically chaste, kisses aside, to the point that Dean stands guard _outside_ the shower room rather than trying to follow Tilly in, and with the bunker being prone to drafts, he heroically lends her one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. (When Tilly giggles a remark about how the clothes smell like Dean, Sam rolls his eyes so hard Cas wonders if he might not damage them.)

Dean even does the heavy lifting of persuading Tilly to let Cas “forehead-tap you to sleep” as he’d giddily put it. (“No nightmares, best sleep ever. It’s magical. Isn’t he the best?”)

“I knew she was special when I saw her. It was like… _sparks_.” Dean whispers, hovering in the doorway to the room he’d made up for her. “Don’t you think she’s special, Cas?”

Of course, he should do what Sam has been doing all night: lie the same way people lie to belligerent drunks to keep them pliant, but it’s hard to come up with exactly _what_ to say, and Cas hesitates.

Dean gingerly pulls the door shut and releases the knob so slowly as to be silent. Not that it matters: it would take a truly unholy amount of noise to pull her back to the surface from the soft, white-sand beach where Cas had sent her to dream.

“Cas.” Dean ducks into his room and beckons Cas to follow. A worried line appears on Dean’s forehead. “You’re important to me, you know that, right? Your opinion is important. You like her, right?”

“I know, Dean.” Cas gives in. “Yes, she’s very special. Would you like me to assist you in sleeping as well?”

Dean flat-out _giggles_ , not unlike Tilly herself. “Yeah. I’m too excited about Tilly to sleep on my own. Thanks, buddy, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Anytime, Dean.”

“She’s so cute.” Dean gets under the covers, grinning again. “Did you see the way she squinted at me after she took her contacts out?”

“I did see that.” Cas indulges.

“And she’s strong. I like that.” He yawns, despite himself, and his eyes twinkle. “I bet if we did a little training, she could hold her own in a fight. That’d be _awesome_.”

“I’m sure she would like that.”

“She said most guys like her with the wig on, but I like her without the wig.”

“It’s good that you appreciate her natural state.”

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Dean.” Cas doesn’t actually know what on Earth he’s being thanked for, but he likes it, and instead of asking, he just presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead and sends him to sleep.

 

* * *

2:05 AM

* * *

 

“Finally. You want a beer?” Sam catches Cas on the way out of Dean’s room. He adds: “I know there’s not much point for you, but…”

“I appreciate the offer.” Cas admits. “I understand that in this context it indicates you feel I’ve completed a trying task.”

A little laugh shakes through Sam. “Yeah, that about hits the nail on the head.”

“I thought you’d want to sleep.”

“Yeah, but… hey, can I tell you something?” Sam searches Cas’ face and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “The whole potion thing, with Becky, I joked about it with Dean, but it honestly freaked me out when it happened. The stuff I’ve been through, you wouldn’t think it would even stand out, but…”

“It does.” Cas finishes. He knows, maybe a bit too well.

“I know it’s different, they brought this on themselves, but just smelling it, and watching the way Dean was acting… I don’t know.”

Cas remembers the way he’d felt after the incident with April: shame, confusion, fear, and the overwhelming sensation that, for one reason or another, he was expected to bury it all and make light of it.  

It can’t have been that different for Sam. In the end, Cas prides himself on this bit of human social awareness: Sam wants the beer, and he doesn’t want to drink it alone. Cas takes him up on it, and they sit in the soft glow of the map table.

At the end of the bottle, Sam says goodnight.

“With me, she had to keep drugging me almost constantly, I’m sure they’ll be fine when they wake up.” Sam assures. “Hey, how are we going to know if it worked or not?”

“Oh.” Cas says. “It didn’t.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“It didn’t work. I could see the spell on him, it’s still there.”

“Well… when were you gonna _tell_ me?” Sam's volume spikes. 

“I... forgot to mention it." Cas says, guilt like a crushing fist in his chest. He worries it sounds ridiculous, given how important this is, how worried Sam is about Dean, and the attempt at a cure was the whole point, how could _telling Sam the result_ have slipped past him? “I’m sorry.”

“Dude, nevermind, it’s fine.” Sam’s voice deflates, all the agitation draining away. His face twists into sympathy instead. “I get it. I gotta get some shuteye.”  

Sam passes through the library into the darkness and turns down the hallway. Soon the sound of his footsteps is gone as well. 

The bunker is quiet, and Castiel waits again.

 

* * *

10:15 AM

* * *

 

"Um. Castiel? It was Castiel, right?" Tilly rounds the corner and jolts Cas out of his reverie.

For a moment he's confused, because she's wearing that long blonde wig she'd arrived holding last night and it makes her look extremely different. 

"Oh." She clearly catches him staring at her hair. "It's uh... easier than carrying it."

"Have you... returned to your normal state?" Cas ventures. 

Tilly laughs, not the feminine, potion-influenced giggles of the previous evening, but a dry laugh, like something raked over sand. "Yeah. Boy, that was something, huh? That's magic?"

Cas nods slowly. "That's magic. I don't recommend toying with it."

"You could make a lot of money with that stuff." She points out. 

"There are witches and demons who do. It seems fairly unethical."

"I guess so." There's that laugh again. She's nervous. The rest comes out rather quickly: "Um. Anyway. Dean seems like a lovely person but I'm not really one for long goodbyes, so..."

"Tilly." Cas tries to help. "Where is your car?"

"In the parking lot of a bar by Harlan County Lake, off Route 183."

"Would you mind if I take you there?"

"Do angels drive?" Tilly asks.

"Well, yes, but I meant... I know taxis can be expensive. My wings are still somewhat damaged, but they're recovering well, and Harlan County Lake isn't far. If we fly, then I can pick up Dean's car and save you the cost and him the trip."

"Angelic valet service. Dean really is a lucky guy." She quips. 

"And, to be honest, I prefer as few taxi drivers to get near this place as possible." Cas admits. "Which reminds me: I can't stop you from telling people about this, but I would ask that you change the details - names, locations, descriptions. There are a lot of people and things out there that want to harm Sam and Dean, and it's impossible to know when they might be watching or listening. It was beyond imprudent for Dean to bring you here to begin with, but he felt his situation was desperate."

"Alright, well I'm not going to pretend I really understand, but I get the feeling this is one of those things it's better not to dig too far into."

"You're right. Many of their ongoing contacts die." He isn't trying to scare her exactly, but he wants to impress upon her the importance of getting clear of it all and putting it behind her. For a moment, when he looks at her, he can almost see other faces: Charlie, Gabriel, Jo, and others who'd died because they got involved with Winchesters one time too many. 

He doesn't have to know Tilly very well to not want her name on that list.

She's gone a bit pale at that. Cas puts one hand on her shoulder and stretches his wings out into the fabric of the universe. In what would feel to her like an instant, he searches for a place matching her description, and, with a great wingbeat, takes off.

He hasn't flown in a long time, and it feels good. By the time they land, he can't fight the smile. 

"Wh--we're here." Tilly says, heavy with incredulity, glancing around the parking lot.

"We are." Cas confirms.

"You are!" An effusive voice calls, feminine, almost matronly, and clear as a bell.

Both of them whirl around, and by the time Cas realizes what he’s doing, he’s already put himself between Tilly and the source of the sound.

On the other side of the paved area, there’s a few trees, past which a small strip of sand juts into Patterson Harbor. Through the trees, Cas can make out a human shape, but whatever it is, it’s too big for a human by far.

He should have noticed that there are no other humans around.

It’s just then that he realizes the Impala is not next to Tilly’s car – it’s not anywhere in the lot or near the bar.

With a flutter, he’s gone from Tilly’s side, instead standing on the sand, looking at the Impala sitting right at the border of where water meets land, pointed as if she’s about to drive off into the harbor, the lake lapping at her two front tires.

Next to her hovers (a few inches above the ground, toes pointed) a woman, if she can be called that, who by Cas’ estimation is nine feet seven inches tall, with a fluttery billow of lavender hair adding a few more inches to the top. She’s dressed in what looks like a body-stocking of shifting greens and grays, and on top of that, a short dress and cape made entirely of glittering chain mail.

Silver, naturally – it would have to be pure silver. Anything with iron wouldn’t do.

“Oh, angel.” She condescends from behind a near-featureless wooden mask. “I never did have much fondness for you Heavenly Host.”

Cas is about to retort that the feeling is and has always been entirely mutual, but movement catches his eye – in the back of the Impala is the very same faerie that had cursed Dean, bound in what he assumes must be iron.

“You’re just in time to watch.” She says.

One red-gloved arm rests on the car’s trunk for a moment. She gives it the daintiest of shoves, to which it responds as if someone had slammed down the gas pedal. It flops ungracefully into the water and pauses there a moment, before vanishing nose-first beneath the surface.

Cas doesn’t swear very often, though his time with the Winchesters has increased the frequency somewhat, but this seems like an excellent occasion to do so.

“She tried to help you.” Queen Mab explains of the faerie in the car. “I couldn’t allow that sort of treachery.”

“What the fuck!?” Tilly shouts. Cas can hear her footsteps getting closer and then stopping the moment she’d be able to see Mab.

“Stay back!” Cas shouts back, not taking his eyes off Mab, voice as commanding as he can manage under the circumstances. “Tilly… get in your car and drive away.”

“No, seriously, what the fuck.”

“Finally, she joins us.” Mab’s voice gives the distinct impression that she’s rolling her eyes under the mask. “She intended to help you as well, didn’t she? I suppose I ought to punish her too, make an example.”

Cas reaches for power and comes up against the exact shining wall that he had more or less expected. This close to the Faerie Queen, of course he’d be blocked, he doesn’t even know why he tried.

Stubborn attempts at fruitless ideas, yet another thing that’s rubbed off on him.

“May I have your name?” Mab slips through the air with frightening speed to loom over Tilly.

“I… um…” And it’s like watching a train crash in slow motion, before Cas can stop her, she nods as she goes to speak, which is enough of a  _yes_ for Mab to do what she does.

“What is it?” Mab asks, and Cas can hear the fucking smile even if he can’t see it. “What’s your name?”

He knows how this goes.

The woman with the black hair opens her mouth, then closes it as panic takes over her features.

Cas doesn’t know her name either. No one does, because now Love-Spell-Woman’s name has been added alongside “Impala” to the list of things Cas has to retrieve today.

Mab bends deeply at the hip until she’s nearly doubled over, and her eerie, masked face is right next to That Woman’s ear. “Namelessness is a _gift_ compared to what I ought to do to you for interfering in fae business – compared to what I _will_ do if you ever cross me or my agents again.”

From there, Mab simply vanishes, no smoke, no light, no glitter – it’s actually a bit uncharacteristic. Cas imagines she must be considerably more agitated than she’d initially appeared. A traitor in her ranks, her opponent receiving unexpected assistance, and…

And it hits him.

Mab _doesn’t know_ that the love potion failed, that the traitor fae might still succeed if Dean comes around. That’s why she left, rather than toying with Cas further, and that’s why she only took away That Woman’s name (instead of, say, her lungs) and why she merely sent the offending Fae to the bottom of the lake -- not exactly a good day, but hardly a death sentence for her kind.

It’s all terribly petty, which is typical for Mab, but it’s small, which is _not_. It’s a warning shot in every way, and it’s because no matter how irritated she is, she still thinks she’s in the clear, that her understanding of the situation, her _leverage,_ hasn’t changed.

They’d stumbled ass-backwards into winning an information battle against the Queen of the Fae.

There’s a desperate, hollow pang inside Cas as he wishes Gabriel could be here. He was always better at dealing with fae. He’d be proud of the accidental deception, and moreover, he’d know just how to turn this into a much bigger victory some time in the future.

For now, for any of that to matter, he needs to solve three problems: the car, the name, and Dean.

“Castiel?” The Woman has fished around inside her purse and is holding her driver’s license out to Cas, her face so full of anxiety that tears are welling up. “I can’t read it. I can’t… it’s like… I don’t know, Russian or Chinese or something, I can’t read my name.”

Cas speaks slowly. “What would you like to be called?”

She almost shrieks back, “What do you mean?! I want to be called my name! I just…”

“Listen to me.” He tries to channel Sam when Sam’s at his most reassuring. “The Queen of the Fae stole your name, but we’re going to get it back. Until then, I’d like to call you something.”

“I don’t know! Fuck!” She splutters and struggles to catch her racing breath. There’s a long inhale, and she closes her eyes, holds it, and lets it out in an aggressive sigh. “Arthur. Call me Arthur. Like, Arthur Dent, because that’s who I feel like right now.”

Castiel knows this one – Metatron had shoved it into his head, but he’d liked the raw data enough to actually read the book himself. He’s particularly inclined to agree with it on the usefulness of towels.

“Okay, Arthur. Names are burdensome, Mab won’t have bothered to carry one very far just for a warning shot. I’m sure it can be easily found. You should go home, where you’ll be safe. I'll take care of it”

“To hell with that!” She says. “I mean, you’re probably right, but I want my damn name back, and honestly I want to give that Queen Mab a punch right in that creepy wooden face.”

“Ill-advised.” Cas says. He doesn’t know why humans are like this, why they only seem to get more stubborn as things get more perilous, but he’s got enough experience dealing with it that he doesn’t bother to waste time fighting it.

Instead, he places one hand on her forehead and asks her to think of times in her life when people called her by her name directly, so that he can get a better sense for the shape of it, and how it might appear.

He opens his eyes and looks around.

“That way.” He says, pointing to an area of the beach that’s covered in small stones rather than sand. “It’ll be a sort of greenish-gold color.”

They split up, against Castiel’s better judgment – the clock is still ticking on Dean’s curse, though, and if she can find her name on her own, it'll save him a lot of time.

Cas walks into the lake.

A physical memory overtakes him for a moment as the surface of the water closes above his head. His arms spread, his consciousness already drowning in Leviathan madness, endless creatures beating against him for freedom—

Focus.

He doesn’t have to go that far into the lake before he finds the Impala, but he can’t raise it because getting close to the car means getting close to the fae trapped inside, and the closer he gets to her, the weaker he becomes, even with the iron shackles on her.

In the end, Cas sends a silent apology to Dean out into the world before smashing one of the windows with a rock and pulling one of the creatures he most dislikes in the world out of trouble and back onto the shore. He knows she’ll find some way to be gone by the time he gets back, and he allows it, allows her to get away.

They might want her alive someday, and if Mab knows she's a traitor, her odds are slim enough already. 

Step two is to dive back to where the Impala ( _now with 100% less fae_ , Cas thinks madly, recalling the labels he’d had to “front and face” back at the Gas’N’Sip) sits in an eddying cloud of silt.

He braces against the bottom of the lake. Light gathers in his eyes and under his palms.  

 

* * *

4:55 PM

* * *

 

The name is no less tedious to recover than the car, but just as they’re losing daylight, they finally come upon it – greenish gold, as predicted, and smoother than the other stones on the shoreline.

They take it inside the nearby bar on the edge of the lakeside campground, and buy a beer to wash it down with. As soon as it is swallowed, they both remember.

“Tilly.” They say in unison, awash with relief.

“He’s not going to be happy about the car, is he?” Tilly isn’t asking.

“It’s his own fault.” Cas snipes. “If he would just—”

“Kiss you instead? Yeah, I’m kind of wishing he’d just tried that first at this point.” A smirk lifts her mouth and she just _unloads._ “And boy does he want to – you know that, right? You’ve gotta know. The whole ride in the taxi he would _not_ shut up about you. Cas this, Cas that. I didn’t realize he meant you were _literally_ an angel, I thought he was just… you know.

“And I assumed it was some kind of unrequited thing, but the second I saw you two in the same room? So then when I realized the angel thing was for real, I assumed, I mean, I don’t know anything about magic, right? So I figured it just didn’t work with angels or whatever and I didn’t want to look stupid for asking. Now, I get it. You’re both just idiots.”

 _Literally everyone knows._ Sam had said. Score one for Sam.

Cas traces the lip of his beer bottle with one finger.

In the fullness of the evening, he says goodbye to Tilly and sees her off. He considers flying back to the bunker, but carrying Tilly here had been a little harder than he’d expected on his still-healing wings, and besides, someone has to supervise the tow-truck guy with the Impala.

It’s an hour to Lebanon in the cab of the tow truck, and neither Cas nor the large,  _extensively_ bearded driver are especially chatty. It gives Cas time to consider things, in detail.

 

* * *

7:20 PM

* * *

 

The door to the bunker squeaks when Cas opens it, and Dean’s out of his chair in the library like a shot from a gun, already in the war room by the time Cas is done pulling it closed behind him.

“Cas!” Relief and worry fight for Dean’s features, and it all eventually resolves into a sort of blunted anger. “What the hell, man? You want to explain where you’ve been all day? Why you left your phone behind?”

“I was cleaning up _your_ mess.” Cas practically growls. He pushes past Dean at the bottom of the stairs. “Your car is at the repair shop in Lebanon, I told them not to touch it, just to hang onto it until you came to get it.”

“My ca—Hey! Don’t you think you owe me and Sam and explanation here?” Dean demands to Cas’ back as he passes.

"Cas, you can't just walk away." Dean's crossing the distance between them, and Cas can feel the irritated tension zip through him. 

"Can't I?" He says, turning around slowly. His spine is rail-straight, and his shoulders are back. There's a tension in his face, around his eyes, one eyebrow quirking minutely in challenge. "Are...  _you_... going to stop me?"

Dean swallows. His mouth tightens, but doesn't open. He glances back at Sam, who is very carefully not looking in their direction at all. 

"Dean," Cas speaks slowly, words carefully chosen, injected with just enough impatient venom. "An innocent woman was in danger, Sam was in distress, _I_ was—” Cas stops there, and then restarts: “You cannot even see the consequences of your  _pathological_ inability to confront your own emotions, because those around you put in _so much_ effort to manage those emotions for you.”

Behind Dean, Cas can see Sam in his chair in the war room, still carefully not looking, but with his eyebrows about as high as they can possibly go. He is still for a brief moment, and then he’s up, laptop cradled in his arms, and climbing the stairs.

Dean catches Cas’ gaze and holds it.

The heavy _clang-clang-clang_ of Sam’s shoes on the metal mezzanine is the only sound, until the door opens and then closes again.

“Dean, all of this could have been avoided if you would have just done the obvious thing from the beginning.” Cas says, gently now, almost wounded. He rattles off names. “Look back. It was obvious to Uriel, to Balthazar, Crowley, Hester, Metatron, Meg, Hannah—"

“This isn’t exactly…” Dean pauses to drag both hands through his hair, as if he can scrape the exasperation right off his scalp. “This is hard for me, Cas, okay? Uncharted territory, here. I’d think you of all people would understand that.”

“Would you?”

All of the sudden, Dean’s back straightens. “Well, yeah.”

“Because I’m so inept at navigating humanity.” Cas deadpans.

“Cas—”

“Dean, do you think this is easy for _me_?” Another memory, flooding back. Dean’s hand on his shoulder, Cas allowing himself to be spun around, for some reason. _Look at me, you know it._ What was it? What had Dean insisted that the he’d known?

“Don’t even, Cas. You wouldn’t understand. The way I was raised—”

“The way _you_ were raised?” A dark laugh jolts through Cas, and he looks absolutely everywhere except Dean’s face. “The way _you_ were raised. And what does that consist of, exactly? A couple of decades of John Winchester making insensitive jokes? Talk to me when it’s _millennia,_ when it’s _torture_. When someone’s drilling into your core, trying to reprogram—”

The anger falls out of Dean’s posture. “Dude, I remember when you were playing god and all that. You said—”

Cas’ eyebrows are practically in his hairline, his eyes go wide, but the rest of his face is slack. “You think I’m talking about _homosexuality_?”

Dean’s eyes dart to one of Cas’ eyes, then the other, searching for an answer, suddenly trying less to fight and more to understand, like he’s in the grip of something and he’s stopped struggling.

“Dean.” Cas’ lips press together for a moment, a thin, frustrated line. “I’m going to say something incredibly unflattering.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to raise his eyebrows, wrinkles appearing on his forehead.

Cas paces slowly as he continues: “Imagine you turn on the news one day, and there is a report of a zookeeper who has been having sex with a chimpanzee in his charge. The zookeeper insists that the chimpanzee understands, that they love each other, that things aren’t the way they look. Would you be on his side, Dean? Or would you roll your eyes, make a joke, and go on believing that the zookeeper deserves whatever sentence he receives?”

This has the desired effect. Dean’s gaze drops to the floor. He shuffles a little, so that one of the bookshelves is in reach, and he can lean on it for support.

“I’m the chimpanzee in this metaphor, I assume.” He says, low and quiet now.

“As far as Heaven is concerned. Perhaps you can see, Dean, why my patience for this…” He gestures broadly, as if Dean’s reservations are a smoke filling the room. “…is a bit short.”

 _There’s a right and there’s a wrong here, and you know it._ That’s what he’d said. A right and a wrong, and he _had_ known it. It had crashed into him like a tidal wave in that moment in Zachariah’s green room: right was Dean and everything he was standing for, wrong was everything Cas had ever been told.

How to explain that?

“Truthfully, they _don’t_ understand.” Cas says, softer now. “It was nice, being human. Painful, terrifying, but nice in its way. It gave me an _excuse_ to feel the way I always did.”

Dean rests both elbows on the bookcase and leans so far forward his head’s practically touching the wood, like someone trying not to faint. He lets himself laugh, his head shakes loosely.  

“Dean?” Cas leans to the side a little.

“It’s just, you’re right.” Dean admits.

Cas tactfully says nothing.

“You stopped the… the performance, pretending to be what they wanted you to be...” Dean goes on, a little awe coming through in his voice. “You switched it off and walked away from all of that, just ‘cause I _asked_ you to.”

“Because you were right.” Cas explains. “It was right, all of it.”

“I’m not as good at performing as I used to be.” Dean says. Some thoughts escape, and Cas can’t help catching an image or two, even if he tries not to – something about Taylor Swift and a confession booth, none of it even makes sense – and he almost misses what Dean says next, as he straightens back up. “Maybe ‘cause I don’t want to be.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Cas says.

“What are you tryin’ to say, Cas?” Dean finally asks. He takes another tack, his voice hoarse, strained: “Look, I’m not gonna stand here and pretend there’s nothing going on, alright? You’re… you. Obviously, I… I mean, anyone would—”

Dean stops, tries a different sentence: “But I gotta tell you, since that faerie worked her mojo, I’ve been just… _racking my brain_ trying to come up with a single thing I have to offer an angel, and I’ve come up with _nada_.”

Cas searches Dean’s face, a thousand fragments all condensing into one rope of thought, to which he puts voice at last: “You don’t think you deserve to be loved.”

Dean’s breath hitches, and the expression on his face is like something inside him is cracking, the sheet of ice on a lake in the spring, splitting, breaking apart.

Dean bends a little at the waist as he winds around the bookcase like he’s optimizing for the least distance he can travel to Cas. He stops at the last second, swallowing, unsure, and Cas picks up where Dean left off – Cas’ hand snakes up past Dean’s neck and into his hair, Dean’s fingers curl into the collar of Cas’ coat.

They slot together like ballroom dancers or puzzle pieces and their lips meet at last.

It’s almost (almost) a shame Sam isn’t here to see it: he’d wondered how they’d know when the curse was broken and in fact, it turns out to be fairly spectacular.

Cas doesn’t need his eyes open to feel the pressure wave that starts at the center of the gray-black cloud in Dean’s chest. It’s like a tiny supernova as it spreads outward, exploding past the boundaries of the cloud and shattering it. The momentum carries the shockwave further still, a soft glow rises and then a rose-gold flash lights up the room.

The ancient bulbs across the walls and ceiling of the library spark and pop, and Dean and Cas are left in darkness.

Neither of them seems to care.


	5. Epilogue

 

DAY FOUR, TECHNICALLY

 

* * *

1:30 AM

* * *

 

Solar midnight is well and truly past, and drowsy as Dean is, he’s most certainly not in anything resembling eternal slumber.

Neither of them had heard Sam come down the hall, and when the door to Dean’s room rattles in Sam’s trademark pattern – a password of sorts, Cas supposes – it’s a bit of a surprise.

Dean disentangles himself, but doesn’t bother to pull on anything more than underwear to open the door just a tiny bit.

“Uh, hey, Sammy.” He croaks, pressing his face through the opening in the door.

A panel of light from the hall stretches across the floor.

Cas stays in bed, half-sitting up against the headboard, eyes drooping. He doesn’t need to sleep, but his form is pressed against the skin of his body, savoring the lingering warmth and tingle, and limiting visual input heightens his other senses.

He opens his eyes long enough to see Sam get a glimpse into the room. Sam’s eyes go wide and, uncaring about Dean’s state of undress, he drags Dean bodily through the crack in the door and into a hug. He mutters something into Dean’s ear.

“Yeah.” Dean chuckles in return. “I… I’ll try.”

“G’night, Cas!” Sam says loudly, with an audible smile.

Cas can hear the bounce in Sam’s step as he retreats down the hall.

The bar of light thins out and disappears as Dean returns and closes the door.

He climbs back into bed. There’s a little crease between his brows – whatever Sam had said has him almost holding his breath.

“Hey Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I mean, is this crazy? You know what happens to the people I love, right? To you, more than once?”

“Dean—”

“That’s what love’s meant to me, long as I can remember. Failure and death.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to.”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, we’ve always found a way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _("ok that's great but what's Queen Mab got cooking actually?" I hear you cry. I haven't forgotten her and she hasn't forgotten our heroes. Keep an eye out and if the stars align, a sequel may one day appear.)_


End file.
